


The Phantom of the Opera

by EquinoxSolstice



Category: Marvel, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossdressing, M/M, Non-powered AU, Phantom of the Opera AU, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Singing, Skinny!Steve, musical AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EquinoxSolstice/pseuds/EquinoxSolstice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Far beneath the majesty and splendor of the Opera House hides a shadowy existence, the Phantom, a musical genius but with a face so horrifying that he was feared by all. Shamed by his physical appearance, the love he holds for his protégé Steven Rogers is so strong that even his heart cannot resist.</p><p>Steven Rogers is a prop artist with a gifted voice, taught by the "Angel of Music", a voice so compelling and alluring that he found himself falling for his tutor, while reuniting once more with his childhood best friend, James Barnes. And Steven found himself also attracted to his offer of warmth and security, while in the Opera House, the tension thickens between him and their main star, Christine Everhart.</p><p>Between two new managers, and the threat of the Phantom looming upon the opera house, Steven must now choose, will he go with the man who taught him his voice, or the man who promised him care and safety?</p><p>A Phantom of the Opera!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phantom of the Opera

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever long fanfic! I've already mentioned this in tumblr, a Phantom of the Opera!AU with a love triangle between Tony, Steve and Bucky, but this was the only time I've managed to finish the first part. Steve will remain a man in this, but with a very high voice, high enough to rival a soprano. In real life that isn't possible of course, but this is a fanfic, so I plead suspension of disbelief.
> 
> Of course, because this is a Musical!Fic, there will be the obligatory BGM. For the maximum experience, I recommend that you listen to the songs while listen, so you can imagine it, and disregard the fact that Steve is singing Christine's part. This is based from the 2004 movie, and the musical, which I have seen. 
> 
> This is just the prologue, and I promise to post the first chapter in a few days. For every song, there will be BGM, and after the prologue, I will put the title of the song before the section starts. The songs are in bold and italic and it would be easier to use the songs from the movies to follow, but if you have a favorite Phantom cast, by all means, use them instead. 
> 
> BGM:  
> 1\. Masquerade (Music Box Instrumental)  
> 2\. Prolouge  
> 3\. Overture

**1919**

**He had seen the way** the road changed in the last fifty years. What were then the steady clip-clopping of hooves and the occasional crack of the horsewhips on the cobbled stone roads gradually became mechanical automations and incessant, sometimes irritating, honking. But there were things that still stayed the same: the crowds of people loitering in the sidewalks, the ringing of the bell tower as it announced another hour. He stared out the window as his own car passed through the avenue, seeing everything, and yet nothing at the same time.

If that particular someone could see him now, he thought with some wryness, that person would be smiling right about now with some amusement. He rarely got introspective, that wasn’t like him at all, but during the past years, he seemed to fall more and more into those pensive, thoughtful silences. He had a lot to think about now that time had finally slowed for him. He had never been the ‘think first, act after’ kind of person, even back then.  

The car was pulled into a gradual stop and he blinked, being roused from his thinking. It looked like he had arrived; he hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings lately, something that, once, almost cost him his life.

_Careful now. Your head might hurt if you think too much._

The voice in his memories made him smile to himself. That’s right, that person would _definitely_ say that.

His driver and attendant were already moving, getting out of their seats to assist him, and he almost rolled his eyes. He was still pretty strong despite his age, thank you, but even the strongest mind couldn’t overcome the fragility of the body.

It was already fifty years, after all.

The chair was being brought around, and it did not, by all means, rob him of his dignity, as was said to him a million times before. But he couldn’t help but despise it; he was a military man, at his age he was supposed to still be able to walk upright, damn it all. But there was no helping it. It was either this, or he would spend the whole day trying to get inside, and time wasn’t a luxury he had anymore.

The door swung open, and he gingerly stepped out of it, a moment as he tried to regain balance, holding tight on the window pane.

His hand, so strong and broad back then, was now withered, wrinkled. Weak.

In fact, his entire body was. He had to be helped into the moving chair, coat and all, his leather-clad feet propped up, metal joints creaking in the familiarity of his sinking weight. A thick, woollen blanket was draped on his lap, and off he was wheeled to the ramp.

He finally looked up, taking in the looming architecture before them, the greying walls, the decaying statues, the boarded double doors, the now wide banner stretched over the four towering columns.

**The Grand Opera House:  
Public Auction Today **

He took a deep breath, and exhaled.

It was time for closure.

* * *

“–Sold. Your number, sir? Thank you. Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen: a poster for this house's production of _‘Hannibal’_ by Chalumeau.”

“Showing here.”

“Do I have ten? Five then. Five I am bid. Six, seven. Against you, sir, seven. Eight–”

The entrance hall was bare.  Filthy, dressed in cobwebs and broken pieces of wood and plaster. He closed his eyes for a moment– _gold sparkles, gowns and coats twirling on the gleaming floors, the grand staircase polished and gleaming, oil lamps bright and twinkling_ –and then he wheeled into to the side door where the voice of the auctioneer resonated, that and the slam of his wooden hammer the only loud sound in the deathly quiet chamber. He was near the front stalls, arriving just in time for the gavel to slam down, the signal of a sold item.

“Eight once. Selling twice. Sold to Charles Xavier, Lord of Winchester. Thank you very much. Lot 664: a wooden pistol and three human skulls from the 1831 production of _‘Robert le Diable’_ by Meyerbeer.  Ten for this. Ten, thank you. Ten still. Fifteen, thank you, sir.”

The theatre changed little. It was still as grand as it was then, if only dilapidated and crumbling with years of disuse. The roof was wrenched open, birds fluttering in and out of the wide space, dry, musty sheets covering walls, covers peeling away with age. Windows were shattered, sunlight streaming through coloured window panes, an almost infinite number of wooden boxes stacked in every corner conceivable. He bid them to stop, listening to the items being bid. The auctioneer was at the stage, holding court with his mallet in hand and a stand in front.

“Fifteen I am bid.  Going at fifteen. Your number, sir?”

He surveyed the other people in the room with him. There was a handful, scattered in front of the stalls, bidders and antique hunters, for what were they doing in the shambles of what used to be the most famous theatre back in time? People were raising their hands, raising the price of the items, some of them invaluable, maybe not in money, but of sentimental value.

He was old. He was tired. But there were some things he had to do himself, and this was one of them.

Completely across from him was a woman, holding her head up, dressed in silver velvet. White feathered her hair completely, arranged and styled under her hat, her chin inclined in the stature of quiet pride and grace, holding herself with dignity even with the deep lines of age in her face. He paused and took a closer look at her, she was familiar, he recognized the way she stood, he knew her. He knew he knew her. But who, was the question.

And then she looked up, and their eyes met.

He had never thought he would see those eyes again, their colour of the rich forest with secrets to hide. It was suddenly startlingly clear on who she was, and her purpose for being present that day. And she knew him too, the intelligence and scrutiny in those orbs never disappeared as they stared at each other.

It was only when the auctioneer spoke again that they turned their faces to the stage simultaneously.

“–Thank you very much.  665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mache musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order.”

The porter held it up for inspection, “Showing here,” and cranked on the key a few times.

Soon enough, notes were floating in the air.

His eyes widened, his mind assaulted with a barrage of memories.

_Masques–faces–parade–the world will never find you–another mask behind you–_

He shook his head quickly, and the memory was gone.

“May I start at... twenty? Fifteen, then? Fifteen, from the sir at the back, thank you–”

He had to get that music box. If only for old time’s sake. He raised his hand, raising the bid. He didn’t care how much he had to pay, as long as he got that box.

The auctioneer quickly noticed. “Twenty then, from you sir, thank you, and then twenty-five? Twenty-five? Twenty-five from the madam there,” and he snapped his head to the other side quickly. He was right, she was also bidding for that music box, her own gloved hand raised.

He refused to lose.

“Thirty for the gentleman up front again, thirty. Thirty I bid. Thirty five, from Madam Potts, thank you–”

So it really was her. He raised his hand again, upping the bid higher, “Forty now, forty. I heard forty. And forty-five?” The auctioneer looked around the room in general, his gaze lingering on her questioningly. She turned her head from the stage, to gaze squarely at him.

She was studying him, he knew she was.  He didn’t know what face he made, the expectation was there, maybe a small amount of begging too. But he was frozen, waiting with, he didn’t want to admit it, bated breath.

_Give it to me. Please._

Maybe she saw it, the desperation in his eyes, the pleading, because she turned back to the auctioneer, and slowly shook her head.

He breathed again.

“Forty then, going once, going twice,” The slam of the gavel.

“Sold, for forty, to Lord James Barnes, Earl of Brooklyn. Thank you sir.”

The porter turned to him and moved forward, placing the music box in his hands. It served to show how poor and brittle his eyes and memory were, because the box looked like the way it was all those years ago. The red cloth, the varnish, the carved monkey, the brass cymbals... it was as if it was untouched by time and space, preserved to work for eternity. He studied its features, its facets, and it taunted him.

It disturbed him more than it should.

He didn’t even know that his hands were shaking as it held the music box, fingertips lightly touching the monkey’s face.

He could almost hear it, if he closed his eyes and thought of it hard enough, _his_ voice, melodious and dark and haunting.

 ** _A collector's piece indeed..._**  
 _ **Every detail exactly as he said...**_  
  
He murmured the words, quietly, almost to himself as he stroked the figurine.    
  
 _ **He often spoke of you, my friend...**_  
 _ **Your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead...**_  
  
 _ **Will you still play, when all the rest of us are dead?**_

The auctioneer’s voice brought him back to the present.

“Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained.” He paused thoughtfully, curiously, as if telling a story. “We are told ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have restored it and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when reassembled.” 

His gaze turned towards the back, the rest of the bidders following his lead, all of them now looking at the massive cloth-covered object that took some considerable space in the room.

The chandelier. So that’s what it was.

“Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination.” The auctioneer stopped, waiting until the porters were all ready and settled into their positions. A gust of wind blew, and everything stopped, hung in the balance.

“Gentlemen.”

The covers were thrown off, and a large, booming spark, and the lights were brought back to life.

The music started.

As was like seeing a long lost memory rising from the ashes of terror, the chandelier swaying and swinging as it was slowly hoisted up from the ground. But he wasn’t able to see this. He was transported back to the time when it all happened, when it all started. The wind was blowing harder, whipping around him, hard enough to remove the fragments of leaves, dust and cobwebs away, removing dirt and grime. He didn’t see the greyed and ripped chairs, but rather, the ripples the air made as the theatre slowly transformed to its former glory, fire flaming bright as the lamps were lit, the chair stalls returning and repairing themselves, regaining their red velvet and gold lustre.

Wherever the wind touched it showed past grandeur, statues returning to silver and gold, the gods Dionysius and Apollo starting down at them alongside the angels and the goddesses that held the theatre aloft. Lush, thick drapes formed over the balconies, private boxes gleaming and polished anew, and it spread, to the ceiling, as the chandelier passed by it, the paintings of clouds and of the blue sky with the cherubim playing and frolicking in earnest, reaching further and closing up as a large dome where the now brilliantly crystal-made chandelier was made centre, the sun that encompasses all, and made things visible.   

And it was just the beginning.


End file.
